Mirage
by gleefullyyours
Summary: Imagination and reality collide...in the shower. Written to fill an anonymous prompt for "Finn touching himself in the shower" at the Glee Kink Meme.


**Title: **Mirage

**Character:** Finn

**Rating: **R

**Author's Notes:** Written this evening - July 1st - for a prompt at the Glee Kink Meme on LJ. I hadn't intended to write any stories for the meme tonight, but I saw that prompt and couldn't resist giving it my best shot. The prompt was "Finn touching himself in the shower. That is all." To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I satisfied the prompt, because although Finn is definitely touching himself in the shower, that really wasn't _all_. I suppose I just can't write anything in this fandom, even shower!wank, without adding just the tiniest bit of F/R romance. Whoops! ;) I did, however, leave Character 2 blank in the summary...so if you want to envision someone else, feel free!

Simply put, this story is 753 words of PWP (and don't we all crave a bit of that sometimes?). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sometimes he sings in the shower.

It's cliché (he totally Googled that word), but there's no denying that it's a perfect place to unwind and let go for a few minutes amidst the heat and steam and the steady spray of water. Sometimes he practices his solos for glee club; other times he begins humming the tune to a song he can't get out of his head and in the next moment finds himself air-drumming with soapy hands and belting out the chorus. (Gosh, it'd be embarrassing if he found out someone was listening!)

Sometimes he talks to himself.

He works his way through difficult conversations he knows he'll have to face, anticipating Rachel's or his mom's or Mr. Schue's responses, trying to store sentences in his mind that won't come out all wrong when it's time to say them. He usually forgets his carefully thought-out quips in the moment, but this is the least he can do to try and keep his foot out of his mouth. (He hopes no one can hear him outside the bathroom door – they'd think he was crazy for sure.)

Sometimes he just needs release.

He can't recall a time when he stepped into the shower _intending_ to get off, but he couldn't possibly count the number of times it's happened. There's just something about the way that hot water pounds steadily against his back, his chest, his shoulders, the slippery feel of soap suds making their way over his torso and down his legs. It seems as though he can barely step into the shower without getting hard. (If anyone knew what he did in there, he'd _die_.)

This morning as he lathers his hair, he's taken with the image of sharing this shower, fingers sliding over slippery skin, kissing along a dewy wet jawline. His hands still for a moment in his hair as his eyes close and he takes a deep, shaky breath.

Oh, god_damn_. Ten seconds of imagining and he's already hard as a rock. Couldn't this have waited at least until he'd finished rinsing his hair?

He quickly rakes his fingers over his scalp as the water washes away the remaining shampoo. He imagines working the lather through long wet hair, then skimming his fingers down the curve of her spine, following the path of the soap suds as they wash away. His cock twitches and he gasps aloud. _Damn_.

He looks down at his hand wrapping around his erection, watching himself as he starts an immediate and very, very familiar rhythm. His eyes slip shut again and he allows himself to imagine not his fingertips dragging up and down along his skin, but instead a tongue and soft lips, his hand threaded through her hair as her head bobs up and down. He grips the washcloth bar as a subpar substitute, relying on his imagination to make up the difference.

It might be embarrassing to be heard belting songs in the shower, even more so to be discovered carrying on a very one-sided conversation while sudsing up. It's entirely different, however, to be caught in the act of coming all over the shower tile. He's lucky it's never happened (he prays it never will) and takes caution to remain at least somewhat close to silent as he quickens his pace.

Biting his lip, he swallows back a groan.

He grasps the washcloth bar tightly, knuckles white against blue porcelain. By now, his mind sees the slope of a water-slickened spine, and he holds her bent hips in his hands as he plunges inside her imagined heat. _Unnngh. _(He really does groan out loud this time.)

Thrusting hard against his own hand, he mimics the motion of his hips as he sees it in his imagination, as he thinks – _hopes!_– it must be like in real life.

His mouth falls open, water spilling inside his lips from the shower spray, and his breath comes in hurried, irregular gasps as he climaxes, _hard_.

He's still aware of his heart beating wildly in his chest when he opens his eyes and slackens his grip on the washcloth bar – and himself. He splashes down the tile (embarrassing, even alone) and after a deep breath, he remembers the original purpose of this shower and reaches for the soap.

A few moments later, as he rinses the suds from his body, he begins to hum the harmony of a recent duet. In his mind, he hears her voice, sees her dark eyes shining up at him, and he smiles.


End file.
